


say you'll be there when this winding road unravels

by rayguntomyhead



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Honeymoon, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Canon, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22095091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayguntomyhead/pseuds/rayguntomyhead
Summary: The dark mirror-shimmer of water stretches out to the horizon, edges of the lake lapping lazily at the black stone edge of the ice-crusted shore. The high shrieks of some cluster of organic avians pierce the quiet, gentle pulse of waves, but it’s distant - somewhere beyond the water.Ratchet sips at his energon, holds each mouthful of warm spiced fuel on his tongue until it cools before swallowing it down. Steam wisps slowly up from his mug, ghosting into the air, and he tilts his helm back to stare up, up into the endless sky.Written for the prompt, Drift/Ratchet, post-canon: Drift and Ratchet enjoy their honeymoon on a snowy alien planet
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Comments: 14
Kudos: 79
Collections: Secret Solenoid '19-'20





	say you'll be there when this winding road unravels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FourthFloorWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourthFloorWrites/gifts).



> Happy Solenoid, FourthFloorWrites! Thank you for the lovely prompt and the chance to indulge in Ratchet/Drift fluffiness – I hope you enjoy it. :)

The dark mirror-shimmer of water stretches out to the horizon, edges of the lake lapping lazily at the black stone edge of the ice-crusted shore. The high shrieks of some cluster of organic avians pierce the quiet, gentle pulse of waves, but it’s distant - somewhere beyond the water. 

Ratchet sips at his energon, holds each mouthful of warm spiced fuel on his tongue until it cools before swallowing it down. Steam wisps slowly up from his mug, ghosting into the air, and he tilts his helm back to stare up, up into the endless sky. 

His systems blink a warning on his HUD, starting to chill below what they can comfortably tolerate since Ratchet’s been sitting here in frozen water vapor for the good part of half a joor. Although Cybertronian systems are much more tolerant of the cold than they are of the heat, there’s still limits to the temperature they can take for any length of time. Why Drift decided an _ice planet_ would be the perfect honeymoon destination he hasn’t the first clue. 

Although it is… eerily, peacefully, beautiful in its alienness. There’s certainly nothing like this on Cybertron. No bodies of water flung out larger than a city, bursting with organic life. No frozen water piled up in fluffy white drifts, that packs into seams just to melt in shivering trails down your protoform. 

It’s practically deserted too. Far as Ratchet knows, he and Drift are the only life forms around for miles, besides the various organic flora and fauna native to the place. Certainly the only sapient ones – you wouldn’t catch the local ones out this far. At least, that was according to the particularly chatty local that had bustled them through the check-in process for their little getaway cabin. Ratchet was _still_ picking out bits of fur off their belongings, although he supposes he can’t really begrudge the organics their protective fuzzy coatings. 

The lack of other beings here is… wonderful, really. After as long as the two of them had caroused through space with every minute spent a stone’s throw away from the next mech the silence is nice. Unsettling, but nice. 

Somewhere across the jagged black slope to Ratchet’s left comes the echo of a faint wet thudding, interspersed with the faint scraping grind of rock against metal and hah.  There’s his wayward conjux. Finally back from his little exploratory hike, most likely with a subspace full of grimy souvenirs to add to the various shelves and mantles with all his other tchotchkes and spiritual paraphernalia. 

Bah. Ridiculous mech. Ratchet’s spark throbs, practically flipping over itself in a happy loop and he gives his chestplate a good thump to settle that nonsense and tips back another mouthful of energon. 

The sound of Drift’s pedes gets louder, and a moment later the elegant swoop of those finials of his bob above the horizon, swiftly followed by the rest of him and yup. Someone has his arms full of damp organic bits and bobs, armor streaked with grime as he practically bounces through the snow. 

“Ratch!” Drift yells, voice echoing across the snow, ridiculously goofy grin on his face and Primus _dammit_ Ratchet loves him so hard it aches. He hugs his mug a little closer, and relaxes back against the shelf of rock behind him. 

The closer Drift gets the more spots of gunk pop out against the gleaming white of his plating. How in the universe did he manage to get so dirty on a planet covered in frozen water?When he’s close enough to be in normal vocalization range, Ratchet raises an orbital ridge and drawls, “Someone’s had fun rolling around in the dirt. Managed to bring it all back with you too, eh?” 

“Yup,” Drift smiles serene, almost innocently except there’s that gleam in his optics as he saunters closer to Ratchet and, oh no. Nope, nuh uh,someone needs a bath before coming in for any cuddles. But even as Ratchet makes a crotchety sort of protesting noise and leans even further back into the rock Drift drops to his knees beside him and nuzzles at Ratchet’s neck cabling, wiggles closer until all the dirt covered nonsense in his arms rubs against Ratchet’s plating. 

“Missed you,” Drift breathes hot against the jut of Ratchet’s jaw, presses a soft kiss to the edge of it, and another to his cheek. 

Oh, what the hell. 

Ratchet ignores the gritty organic junk against his plating and tilts his helm just enough to catch Drift’s lips in a kiss, lets the chilling ache settling deeper and deeper into his protoform melt away into the feeling of his conjux - his _conjux -_ safe and happy and here. 

Drift’s mouth presses soft against his, derma dragging against each other as he readjusts, tilting so he can press closer, closer. Ratchet’s hand comes up to cup Drift’s faceplates, strokes his thumb along the delicate red line under Drift’s optics so perfectly placed as if for exactly that purpose and nips at the plush of Drift’s lower lip. 

And fraggitall, all those sappy holodramas, all that lurid flowery prose about _true love’s kiss_ and suchlike that Ratchet has definitely never devoured in the dead of the night cycle - he’d always maintained it was sentimental nonsense, loudly scoffed it off to anyone who mooned over it out loud in his vicinity. Here though, Drift breathing his name into his mouth like a prayer… 

It's almost enough to make a mech a believer. 

Ratchet pulls Drift in tighter, leaning back against the cold rock and _ugh._ The warnings in his HUD flash insistently, several air intakes snapping shut to try and hold in his heat and the noise makes Drift break away with an unhappy hum.

“Ratch, have you been sitting out there like this since I left? No, don’t tell me,” Drift says, and bumps his forehead against Ratchet. His field fans out, twining and knitting into Ratchet’s, so intimate it almost hurts and Ratchet’s optics shutter with the feel of it. 

“C’mon old mech, time to go inside and warm up,” Drift says. He gets one pede, then the other underneath him before effortlessly shifting all his treasures to one arm so he can offer Ratchet his hand. Just above a ray of light breaks through a crack in the nimbostratus blanket of clouds, sending the snow to glittering and haloing the lines of Drift’s helm. 

“Old mech, my aft,” Ratchet grumbles, but there’s no heat in it. He stares up at Drift, the frame built and rebuilt, changed by choice, and not. Still here, at the end of it all. 

“Practically ancient,” Drift says, shaking his head with faux graveness.

“You know I’m only half a joor older than you,” Ratchet sideeyes him as he reaches up to grab Drift’s hand; and if he uses his medic modded strength to pull hard enough to send Drift teetering, well, serves him right for making Ratchet have _feelings_ all over the place. 

“Gotta get you inside before your joints lock up from the cold,” Drift says. “There’s even a stone box inside for making a fire for warmth.” 

“Warm up, hrm?” Ratchet says. “If it’s warming up we need, I might have a few better ideas than some kind of primitive _fire box.”_

“But of course!”The corner of Drift’s mouth keeps twitching up even as he tries to school back to seriousness. “I knew it would be handy, keeping a top-notch medic like you around.” He slides a hand around Ratchet’s waist, pulls him in and purrs, “I’m sure you knowaaaaall the tricks. Have to give me a _demonstration_ , show me all about how medics 'keep warm.'”

He accompanies this bit of nonsense with the most over-the-top leer that Ratchet has ever had to suffer, because of course he does the slagger.

“Brat,” Ratchet relaxes in Drift’s grip, primly ignores the hand stroking lower and lower on his plating to poke at that particular gap just around Drift’s arm. He grins victorious as Drifts lets go of Ratchet with a squeak and dances sideways, laughing. 

“Oh no, don’t think you’re getting off that easy,” Ratchet narrows his optics, brings his hands up and waggles his servos menacingly. “Come and take your medicine like a mech.” 

“No-ooo,” Drift says and stumbles back through the snow, juggling his armful as he ducks and weaves. Joors on joors of learning Drift’s frame, every sensitive and tender spot, mean that Ratchet knows _exactly_ which ticklish sensor clusters are most vulnerable to his servos and after few judicious applications of those servos later Drift has collapsed in the snow in a shrieking, giggling, heap of mech.

Ratchet follows him down, braces himself over Drift and grins his most smugly satisfied grin right at his ridiculous conjux. Hah. Teach _him_ to make jokes about Ratchet’s age. Drift’s slowly settling, now the attack on his sensors has stopped and he stares up at Ratchet, optics shining brighter than blue flame. He looks so happy _, really_ happy, not just that blanket of serene, unthreatening mysticalness that he throws over himself all the time. 

Before Ratchet can stop himself he’s leaning down, catching Drift’s lips in kiss – harder this time, almost painful because he almost lost this. He almost lost this, time and time again before he even knew he would want this, before he knew he could have it. 

Of all the clinics, in all the cities, in all of Cybertron, Drift just had to wander into his.Of all the ships, all of all the crazy quests he could’ve gotten himself roped into, Ratchet just had to blunder into Drift’s.

Frag, but it's a crazy universe.

The rest of Ratchet’s air intakes snap shut with a longsuffering _snick_ and fine. Suppose they really should get inside. Ice planet, _really_. Ratchet is definitely calling dibs on picking the location for their anniversary. 

Drift’s forehead crinkles in worry at the sound, and he squirms underneath Ratchet. 

“I know, I know,” Ratchet says, heaves himself up and off of Drift. “C’mon, inside with you.” 

Drift nabs the various bits of his dropped organic loot, cramming a couple more into his obviously already overstuffed subspace and cradling the rest. With his other hand he grabs for Ratchet, weaving their servos together to tug him the rest of the way up the short path to their cabin. He knees the door open, pulls Ratchet inside and it’s warm enough to send steam wafting off both their plating. 

Lovely, that’s _much_ better. Ratchet cracks his vents open cautiously, flares his plating just enough the warmth can start to seep in underneath. Maybe later they can take advantage of the jury-rigged but pleasantly bubbling hot oil bath their cheerfully accommodating hosts had left prepared for them – there’s nothing like an oil bath to really ease away that strut-deep chill.

“We should put another pot of energon on the heater,” Ratchet says absent-mindedly as he stamps his pedes, shaking off as much of the snow and detritus as he can before he tracks it into the house. “You should pick out which kind you want from the unit in the kitchen, I put it all away already.”

The cabin is warm, but there’s still a faint chill around the edges of the room that all structures with not quit sufficient insulation seem to get. Hrmph. Drift can be in charge of getting the fire box going. Seems like exactly the sort of organic nonsense he would’ve run into at some point during his travels. Certainly _Ratchet’s_ never had to make actual fire in an inset stone wall fire box. 

“Hey, you,” Drift says, soft and when Ratchet turns he’s dumped his armful hands out reaching for Ratchet, to pull him close. They are both still liberally splotched with dirt and melting snow and organic gunk, and could at least use a wipe down before anything else, but dammit if Ratchet can resist Drift’s pull. 

Later. Later will be soon enough to clean up themselves and Drift's treasures because right now, the two of them, they have all the time in the universe.  


**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are <3


End file.
